The Ruin Of A Rogue (6 page)

“Does Lithgow know?” Cynthia voiced the question that had been buzzing at the back of her own mind.

“I don’t know.”

“You should tell him. It will settle the matter of his intentions.”

“I’m not looking to marry to disoblige my guardian, merely to choose my own husband. Besides, Lithgow doesn’t appear to be courting me.” If one discounted the kiss, which she decided not to mention to Cynthia.

She didn’t want to think ill of him. She wanted to take his profession of friendship at face value. “He tells me he is looking for a steady occupation and is studying estate management.”

Cynthia looked a little dubious. “You have plenty of estates. Could he be seeking your patronage?”

“As though Morrissey would listen to me! He decides and I obey. That’s why I’m so terrified of what will happen when he returns from Ireland. The only way to drive off Tiverton before then is to soil my reputation, just a little.”

“I’m not the person to advise you on the ways of the beau monde. My uncle made his money in trade, and in Windermere’s absence I have no standing in the
ton.
But what you suggest sounds dangerous to me.”

“Lady Ashfield assures me that only a stickler like her nephew will care. For most people my fortune washes away all sins. Even if it doesn’t, I have no aspirations to the kind of social leadership she describes. She also says if I pursue Lithgow’s acquaintance it will shock Lord Algernon. In her words,
Not all the Brotherton estates would make him ignore the whiff of scandal
.”

“Her Ladyship is very full of opinions,” Cynthia said, smiling at Anne’s imitation of the old beldame’s tones. “That’s the answer then. You should be seen in Lithgow’s company. It’s just what I’ve been doing with Denford. I daresay neither Denford nor Lithgow is fully to be trusted but they have their uses. We can enjoy them, as long as we proceed with care.”

Anne squeezed Cynthia’s hand, delighted with a solution that so perfectly aligned with her own inclinations. “I’ll ask Lithgow to escort me around London, only in daylight and in public places so I shan’t be in any real danger. Everyone will talk and Lord Algernon will cut my acquaintance.”

“But, dearest Anne, guard your heart. As I must too.”

“You may not be of the
ton
, but you couldn’t give me better advice. I am glad Caro introduced us and proud to have your friendship.”

At Hanover Square Cynthia went straight upstairs, exhausted by the tedious delights of Lady Ashfield’s entertainment, but Anne was restless, her mind swirling with the evening’s discussions. Slipping out to the garden, she was drawn to the spot where she’d received her first kiss. Her lips seemed to have developed a permanent state of sensitivity and she wanted to dwell on the moment. Thinking about it gave her little thrills of pleasure.

Not that it could happen again. Since she intended only to see Lithgow in public, and chaperoned by her maid, there wouldn’t be a chance. Besides, one didn’t kiss friends. And if one was wise, one didn’t kiss possible fortune hunters or potential stewards.

Even without kisses, she keenly looked forward to spending time with Lord Lithgow. How splendid it would be to visit the British Museum with a knowledgeable companion. Communicating her wishes posed a problem. She couldn’t simply write him a note and ask him to escort her, could she? Such an invitation might be misinterpreted as a desire for further kisses and she didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. They were friends, that was all.

Kisses were out of the question.

They would merely share fascinating conversations about the wonders of the ancient world. With his wide experience, he had much to teach her. But not about kisses.

Well, doubtless he could provide an education in that area too, but it wasn’t going to happen.

Kisses were for husbands.

Marry Marcus Lithgow.
The idea popped into her head out of nowhere.

Ridiculous. It could never happen. Yet the seed once planted sent insidious tentacles into her mind.

His past was a little tarnished but he now held a peerage. Apparently wealth and high rank were not essential in Morrissey’s mind, only the ability to take care of her estates. Lithgow was studying the subject, and she was certain he was a capable man. And she employed plenty of people who actually did the work. She fancied he was quite shrewd enough to oversee them.

An enticing vista opened in her mind: life with a husband whose company she enjoyed and whose kisses—and other things—she would like even more. Why not? Since she had to be married for her money she might as well get something from the bargain. He wouldn’t treat her enthusiasms with disdain. She pictured herself searching for Roman remains on all the thousands of acres of her inheritance with a husband who would aid and encourage her rather than complaining about the waste of land. And he would introduce her to new wonders, guiding her around Italy. Rome!

Ruins by day, kisses by night. And more.

In gathering wonder, she contemplated the strange restlessness that had possessed her since she met Lithgow, dissatisfaction with her dull existence and a yearning for something more. Could she possibly be in love?

Love wasn’t anything she’d expected or allowed herself to aspire to. It was for other people, not plain Anne Brotherton with her millions and her common sense, her odd passion for Roman remains, and her sensible, unmodish wardrobe. Yet tonight she wore flimsy gauze and silk over a fine lace-trimmed shift. If her wardrobe had changed, she had too.

A weight in her chest threatened to erupt into joy. Cynthia’s warning to guard her heart came too late. If not in love with Marcus Lithgow, she was well on the way, and it was wonderful.

She celebrated the realization with a few little dance steps on the rough garden path.

But could he love her in return? She thought he might. He had kissed her sweetly, then spoken with sincerity of the disparity in their positions. She must inform him of the way her fortune was settled, but she didn’t believe that would deter him.

Dealing with her guardian was another matter, an obstacle that made an invitation to an antiquarian outing a mere bagatelle. Persuading Morrissey to consent to the match would be difficult, if not impossible, but a surge of optimism seized her. Her will had been muffled in a coat of passivity and she hadn’t even known it until she shook it off. Her brain felt sharp with a new determination to fight for what she wanted.

She shivered in her heavy cloak with its fur-lined hood, and buried her free hand deeper into the matching muff, but not because of the chill of the November night. Heat warmed her cheeks, flowed through her veins, and settled low in her belly. She’d never experienced such a peculiar physical reaction. She felt overdressed.

Another buffet of wind put paid to that sensation. She scurried for shelter and discovered, by the light of her lantern, a rusty gate. Behind a tree, almost hidden by the thick ivy that covered the bricks on that side of the garden wall, it appeared to have been unused for years. Anne remembered that the house on that side belonged to the Duke of Denford and wondered if generations of children had used the gate to meet for play. Or—and before she came to London, it wouldn’t have occurred to her—whether a pair of illicit lovers had used it for discreet trysts. Through the foliage she heard steps approach, an aromatic smoke penetrated the wintry odor of decaying plants, and voices drew nearer. Male voices.

One particular voice revived the fluttering in her heart. Lithgow must be spending the evening with Denford, whose deep tones were unmistakable. She toyed with the fantasy of slipping through the gate and displaying her new gown.

“Good cigar, Marcus. You can’t find such tobacco in London.”

“I still have a dozen or two left of those I bought when I was last in Spain. Lord knows when I’ll get more. After the devilish time I had getting here from Italy, I suppose I’ll have to remain for the moment.”

Her governess had stressed that listening to conversations was dishonorable and cautioned her that eavesdroppers heard only ill of themselves. She didn’t care. Stowing the lantern against the wall so the light wouldn’t seep through the gate, Anne pressed her ear to the bars to make out Lithgow’s pleasant baritone. She wanted to hear about Lithgow’s travel plans. After all, they might very well include her.

“The French have inconvenienced those of us who find the shores of England limiting.”

“Lord, Julian. How excited we were in ’89. Being able to see the Revolution at first hand was well worth getting kicked out of Oxford. What a time the four of us had in Paris. And now Robert is dead and Damian is God knows where.”

“Persia, I believe.”

“Exactly. Do you remember how wooden-faced the respectable English became over the whole affair?” Anne smiled to herself, remembering her grandfather expressing himself strongly on the subject. “Afraid the infection of liberty and equality would spread here. As though the fat, stolid English would ever take to the streets. I miss Paris. Pity things got out of hand.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“You were the last of us to leave. You witnessed what happened in the Terror.”

“Some of it,” Denford answered curtly. “I don’t talk about it.”

“You never did. Was it a woman?”

“It was long ago and I never think of it.”

The men fell silent for a minute or two and the scent of tobacco grew stronger. Fearing the smoke might set off a cough, Anne inched back and waited.

The duke broke the silence. “And what are you up to, Marcus? My spies tell me you haven’t been gracing the gaming hells of London with your presence.”

“I’m a reformed character. My valet undresses me and puts me to bed early, then I rise with the dawn and fill my days with useful study.” Although he spoke carelessly, Anne was pleased by evidence of Marcus’s sincerity. Soundlessly she mouthed the word.
Marcus.
She liked it. A noble Roman name.

Denford emitted a short, derisive laugh. “I’d like to see that. Almost I am tempted to invite you to live at Denford House. Almost. And only for the cigars.”

“Thank you, Julian, but I’m quite content in my own rooms.”

“I’d believe you if I hadn’t seen them. Your lodging is a slum.”

“In St. James’s? I don’t think so. As Lewis always said, the address itself is what matters.”

“A slum is in the eye of the beholder, and to this beholder you live in a pigsty.”

“You insult my servant. Travis would be desolated to hear you say so. Or he might agree.” She could hear his smile.

Boots crunched on gravel and the voices grew faint so she could barely make out their idle banter. She’d heard nothing she shouldn’t. Huddling in her cloak, she was about to leave when the volume rose and Marcus’s words became clear again. “Your house is conveniently placed. Think how much beauty resides beyond that fine wall.”

“And how much wealth.”

“I wondered if your ultimate aim was to win the heiress,” Marcus said with a short laugh. “Flirting with her hostess is a clever stratagem to get close to a girl who strikes me as excessively reserved. Toying with Damian’s bride may amuse you, but I doubt you will succeed there and I’m sure you know it. Lady Windermere strikes me as a proper chit under the veneer of worldliness.”

“You underestimate me.”

“Never that. But judging by the state of your house you could use a fortune, and marriage is the easiest way to get one. I’d expect you to take advantage of Miss Brotherton’s proximity.”

“I make it a point never to do the expected. The Brotherton lucre is yours. If you can bring it home, which I doubt. How goes your pursuit of the lady?”

T
he sixth sense that had kept him alive and relatively prosperous in an occupation fraught with hazards told Marcus not to answer, to deny mercenary motives toward Anne Brotherton. Yet his instincts hadn’t been much use to him lately and might be as flawed as his luck. Julian wouldn’t betray him. He might try to outwit him. He might be in pursuit of the same end, no matter what he claimed. But there was truth to the adage about honor among thieves. Or in their case rogues. Neither he nor Julian had ever been a common thief.

Since meeting at Oxford they’d shared a kinship, based on their lack of fortune and birth, when compared to Robert Townsend with his handsome estate and Damian, Lord Kendal, heir to the earldom of Windermere. Marcus never entirely lost the feeling that he needed to sing for his supper and Julian felt the same. Their jokes were wittier and more frequent, their schemes more outrageous when the object was, as usual, to shock the sedate. And the sedate, duly shocked, always blamed them because what could they expect from a pair of young men with such disreputable sires, each a greater disgrace to their distant but nonetheless noble families.

There’d also been a competitive element to their roguery. The old feeling of wishing to outdo Julian made Marcus boastful. “Spoiled heiresses need careful handling,” he said. “I believe I progress with the amiable Miss Brotherton. The poor girl is beginning to trust me. Two steps forward and one back. You know how the game is played. I kiss her, and apologize for the liberty. Next time I shall declare myself unable to resist her. It won’t be long until she’s begging for my attentions. As long as her guardian stays away for a few more weeks I’m confident I can bring home the prize.”

A
nne choked back tears as her maid unlaced the lovely gown. Maldon, approving greatly of the addition to her mistress’s wardrobe, gave the silk a shake and laid it reverently over the back of a chair. Anne wanted to hurl it onto the floor and stamp on it.

Fool, fool, fool that she was to believe he wanted her for herself. How stupid to delude herself that a handsome young man with a reputation as a scoundrel could have been attracted to a quiet, plain heiress for any reason but the obvious one.

Maldon helped her out of her fine new petticoats and shift and held up the new nightgown Cynthia had persuaded her to buy. The fine white cotton shimmered like satin and was trimmed with beautiful Brussels lace.

“Not that. It’s impractical for winter. Fetch one of my old ones.”